“What do you mean you
can’t find him?” Mario Falcone barked into his onyx
head set. His beefy fist slammed onto his mahogany
desk. “He is on parole. The San
Francisco police department has him tracked with GPS!”
--The GPS signal is dead.-- The voice
spoke into the Mafioso’s ear.
“Tell me something Sgt.
Fairbanks. Tell me anything, or on my grandmother’s
grave I swear…” Mario spoke, his eyes
tightly clinching closed.
--Our investigation dug up a security
video, from the Los Angeles International Airport. -- Fairbanks spoke;
his voice was slow and pitiable. --On the tape, a man
matching Armitage’s description was seen boarding a plane to
Japan, along with a woman who looked to be a dark skinned
Asian. We believe the woman to be…--
“Sandra Hawke,”
Falcone said opening his eyes wide. “And you are
just now telling me this why exactly?” His voiced
raised again, spittle flying from his open mouth.
--Mr. Falcone the identity is not
verified sir, we can’t just…--
“Sergeant I want you to tell
me you have found out the plane he was on. You are looking at
the passenger list, and you are verifying the identity that your
parolee is going under. You are then going to find out where
he is staying, or where he is currently. And you will
personally give me all available information on Milo Armitage and
Sandra Hawke’s whereabouts tomorrow morning.”
--I am going to find that plane right
now sir.--
“Tomorrow morning Sergeant or
it will be your last morning.” Mario pulled the
head set from his ear, it dropped onto his desk with an loud
thud. His large nostrils flared expunging a long thread of
air, his head gradually tilted up in a slow motion.
“Failure is not tolerated, Silver Monkey.”
The silver and black garbed man stood
silently in front of the Mob boss’s antique desk.
His heavily muscled arms were crossed and pressed against his narrow
chest. The bizarre mask he wore stared at Falcone,
silently. The man’s threatening nature
seemed to do little to effect the composure of the deadly assassin.
“However, in light of the news
I just received, it can’t be helped.”
Mario’s voice seemed more annoyed than apologetic.
“Your target is no longer in San Francisco.”
“I could have told you
that.” Silver Monkey spoke, his voice a bare
monotone.
“But not before making
yourself known,” Mario said, his dark eyes staring like
poison at the masked man.
“I was not told that there
would be another in Armitage’s house. I was also
not informed that Sandra Hawke’s son was a gifted with strong
kung fu,” Monkey said.
“Obviously, there are things
that are ‘need to know’. And
unfortunately, we hadn’t any knowledge of Connor Hawke being
in the apartment. But the problem wasn’t your fight
with Hawke; it’s his friend Eddie Fyiers.”
“The other gentleman
didn’t see me,” Monkey said coolly.
“I’m not stupid.”
"But the kid did, and even as we speak
Fyiers is running up your entire dossier," Falcone explained.
"And once Fyiers tells the kid, what sort of occupation the Silver
Monkey travels in, it will make your job all the more difficult."
"Surely you are not serious, Falcone.
I'm a ghost to law enforcement the world over."
"You are known to the underworld,
Monkey,” Falcone said, his body shifting forward across his
desk. "Don't let arrogance cloud your decisions again."
"Should I kill this Fyiers?
Would that take care of the problem?"
"No," Falcone said “You will
sit tight and wait. If Fyiers and Hawke become a problem,
then I will deal with it. Your only concern should be Milo
Armitage"
Martin de Porres House of Hospitality San Francisco, CA
St. Martin's Free Restaurant, sat almost
invisible among the row of similarly brick faced buildings, along
Potrero Avenue. The only obvious difference between it and its
neighbors was a weather beaten picket fence, which sandwiched itself
between the soup kitchen and Golden Gate Pawn. A needy person
would only have to look at that rickety fence to see the sign, for St.
Martin's complete with an arrow pointing their hungry bodies to the
right building.
It was nearing four in the afternoon, and they had
opened their doors for supper. Like most afternoons, the brick face
lobby was packed with bodies. Hungry men and women hunched
over steaming plates, the large windows bathing the street worn bodies
with the last of the day's sunlight.
Connor Hawke stood behind the long lunch counter
with the other volunteers. He sat steaming rice into empty plates
in a rapid succession. His lips offered a gracious smile to each
sorrowful face that progressed past him. To him, he was
unsure of a greater tranquility.
As Green Arrow, Connor knew he did good work.
A super hero saved lives, and prevented disasters from falling on the
innocent. But it was at St. Martin's he felt the most
pride. It was in this small simple building that he was able to
provide to the needs of those people that society had forgotten.
It was like being home again, like the work he did when he lived in The
Nappa Valley Ashram. He was giving to the community in a way that
Green Arrow never could-- his dad never did.
"I think that’s everyone right now." A
raspy voice hissed across Connor's nimble shoulder. "Ready to
take a break, Connor?"
The blond youth turned his head, his eyes taking in
the large ivory grin of the plump woman. "Thank you, Ms. Carnes
that would be fantastic."
Misty Carnes brought her right hand over her scalp,
pushing back her purple Mohawk. "It’s Misty, Connor.
Calling me 'ms' makes me feel like an old woman." She let a short laugh
pass over her narrow lips, age worn creases splintering what must have
once been a beautiful face.
"Forty-eight is pretty damn close." A haggard
voice chuckled, directing the attention of the volunteers.
"Hope you enjoyed your last meal Rex." Misty
spat, looking at the gray beaded man, whom loomed over the
counter. Like Misty he was showing off a broad smile, his own
wrinkles scattered across his age worn face like old leather.
"Well actually I was hoping for seconds." He
said letting out a short laugh.
"You damn well will wait like everyone else," Misty
said, her hands pressed firmly against her waist.
"I'll let you two senior citizens settle it over
shuffle board," Connor said breaking up the two rivals. "I'm going to
take that break now." The former monk, pulled off his apron,
laying the stain splattered white cloth on the counter.
"Don't meditate for too long, Gandhi," Misty said.
"Think I might need you to do one of those Jet Li moves at closing time
again."
"You’re just lucky I'm a pacifist Ms. Carnes,"
Connor said, patting his friend's plump shoulder with his hand.
"And you’re lucky I'm not attracted to men,"
she said, her hand slapping his ass. "Now take your break already
pretty boy."
Connor wore a smile on his face, slipping through
the crowd of bodies. His black running shoes whispered his
footsteps against the wooden flooring of the St. Martin's. Nimbly
the archer walked through the horde of hungry people, his bright eyes
staring at the open doorway. A few minutes of fresh
California air would be a godsend.
Despite the hectic pace, and the rough attitudes,
St. Martin's was exactly what Connor needed. Since he first
learned that his father was a super-hero and followed him out into the
real world he hadn't had a chance to be a normal person; he hadn't even
considered the idea that a life existed beyond the emerald mask.
For the first time in his life, he had friends who had no idea that he
moonlighted as a vigilante. The people at St. Martin's were
normal people, and made him feel like he fit in. Even if
obviously he didn't.
"YOU LIKE THAT HAFRICAN!" Jeers shouted
attacking Connor's ears when he stepped outside the door. "Stupid
HALFRO!" another voice said. The former monk pressed his hands
against his salmon colored polo shirt driving the creases from its
surface. His head stiffly turned to the alleyway, a frown forming
over his full lips.
Memories of ridicule ran like shards of glass down
Connor's spine. He turned his body, and walked towards the
alley. His piercing emerald eyes looked straight ahead through
the thin almond eyes of his own mixed ancestry.
"JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!" The broad shoulder boy
shouted through blood stained lips. His white skin was marred
with the flush of red on his cheeks; the braided black hair clung to
his sweat glazed face.
"Not until you quit coming to school!" A
chubby boy with spiky red hair smiled closing his hand in a tight
fist. "Maybe we'll burn down your house!" The kid tensed
his mouth into a grimace and swung at the largely built Milato youth.
"NO!" The square shouldered boy threw up his
large adult sized hand in a super human blur, his palm catching the
chubby kid's hand. He squeezed hard; the sounds of bones snapping
filled the atmosphere with a savage omen. "LEAVE MY MOTHER ALONE!"
Without warning, the superhuman kid, thrust his hand
forward releasing the bully’s broken digits. The crimson haired
lad was thrown into the air, like a sack of potatoes. Connor
reacted instantly.
His black shoes left the ground as he pushed his
body forward. Like the skilled martial artist he was, his body
moved forward nearing the human limits. His thin arms lashed from
his shoulders, his limbs wrapping around the bully's falling body.
Silence fell over the Alley; the moment Connor's
shoes slapped the pavement. Every pair of eyes suddenly fell on
the adult. "Hey get off me you pedophile!" the crimson haired
bully shouted, pulling himself free from the muscular arms of the adult.
"Come on guys, let’s get out of here!" the
chubby ring leader said.
"That’s a good decision," Connor said in a
monotone growl. The force of his voice was enough to cause the
trio of bullies to take off in a spirited stampede.
"I... I... almost killed him," the large kid said,
finally raising his head up from his chest. His brown almond
shaped eyes were glittered with tears. "If you didn't show up,
I'd be..."
"But I did show up, and you didn't make that
mistake." The former monk stood up from his haunches. "You
are a brave kid; obviously you haven't ever hit one of them."
"I can take their abuse," the boy said. "But
when they said they were going to hurt my mother... I..."
"We do stupid stuff for our mothers." Connor
let a smile fall over his face.
"I don't do anything for my mother, but get blood
all over my clothes," he said. "But that’s none of your
business. You did your thing, why don't you go away?"
"How about I show you how to pull a punch? So
that next time you have to fight, no one gets hurt."
Botanical Solutions Two Weeks Ago
The afternoon sun brilliantly shined through the
glass ceiling of the greenhouse. A smarmy heat oozed through the
space of room like an invisible fog. Flora covered every inch of
the place. Vividly colored flowers seemed to glow in contrast to
the over abundance of green vines and brown roots. Even the once
concrete floors were covered in long blades of grass and spores of
mushrooms. The wall’s once drywall, was now littered with
sponge moss. The room smelled as sweet as candy.
It was only the very center of the strange
greenhouse that non-organic shapes existed. A rack of computer
monitors stood in the radial clearing, the plastics and metals of the
machines were covered in the same brackish moss as the walls. On
either side of the monitors stood traditional lab tables they too were
covered in the same peat fungi. However they did not dare to move
past its surface towards the curling glass tubes of bright liquids, and
foul smelling beakers.
Dr. Jason Woodrue, on the other had seemed to be in
a different world all together. He sat in what looked to have
once been an office chair, now over growing with bright flowers wrapped
in thick vines of ivy. His thin back was bent forward hunched
over a former computer desk. His twig formed fingers were rapidly
pressing keys, which like the lab equipment remained bare of floral
growth.
Lab Journal April 15th 2009
The experiments have been going
better than even I could have hoped. The initial hypothesis
regarding the human bonded chlorophyll from fronds* has proven to have been just a stepping
stone. The meaning of such, I will attempt to explain in this
entry.
[*Fronds are the 'leaves' of ferns.]
The initial
hypothesis and core of my work, set up by my employers was to create a
plant whose chlorophyll could be integrated with human
physiology. This would hypothetically allow a person digesting
the chlorophyll to undergo a limited form of a photo System II
photosynthesis. This generation would allow a user to greatly increase
the oxygen count of the bloodstream. The benefits obviously would
be extraordinary including a migraine medication as well as a much
healthier alternative to traditional energy stimulants like pollen and
caffeine.
However the
initial hybrid of eratopteris richardii or C-fern has caused an
unexpected twist-- one that unfortunately I cannot pass up. In
these last few weeks I have been conducting experiments with the
Chlorophyll of my new fern. The latest series of tests have been
on human epidermis samples, to monitor the molecular bonding for
discoloration of skin cells. In doing this, I realized the true
fruits of my labors.
In six of ten
trials I have witnessed the proteins of my chlorophyll not simply
bonding the molecules of the contagions. No, instead I have
witnessed the proteins bonding with very skin cells. The
Chlorophyll is changing the very cellular make up of my samples!
Upon finding such
interesting results, I have made a few quarries into obtaining some
human test subjects, under the nose of my employers. I must hold
out hope and not get to ahead of myself. I must take everything
slow, and remember to cover my true research, from what my employer's
assume I am working on.
-Dr. Jason Woodrue
Present Day Central San Francisco
Connor Hawke felt the sweat beading down his brow,
the cool San Franciscan night cooling the moisture like ice. He
stood over the broad shouldered 14 year old, who like him was glazed in
a shimmering sweat. To anyone else the young half Chinese and
half black kid would have appeared to have been at least Connor's own
age, due to the massive size and thick growth of muscles the boy's
frame had.
The archer felt stiffness in his chest; he knew that
his skin was swelling underneath his neatly tucked pink polo
shirt. The kid was obviously a meta-human. And it was a
testament to the former monk's physical fitness and durability that he
wasn't suffering more than what would obviously be bruised flesh.
Connor's nimble hand ran through his closely cropped
blond hair, droplets of sweat sprayed in a halo above his skull.
His narrow eyes looked to the boy, his normal smile was gone, but the
Buddhist kindness was still ever present on his sharp features.
"Okay Daniel you are still punching over your shoulder," Connor told
the dark skinned boy.
"It’s really hard to think when I'm supposed
to be hitting. I don't understand how people can do that.
When I want to punch, I can't think of anything but punching," the boy
said, his lips drawn into a frown. "I don't think I can do it."
"I understand, when I started out it was the
same. Aggression is just a key to arrogance. You are trying
to prove yourself. You must be humble. Remember
you’re not wishing to show your opponent what you have. You
just need to strike to stop him from striking you." Connor slid
his right foot forward, the gravel scrapping on the heel of his
shoes. "Now watch again."
Connor clinched his left fist, bending his
elbow to touch his shoulder. "You first touch your knuckle to your
shoulder." He then leaned his weight towards his right leg.
"Move your weight forward." Then he brought the fist forward in a
smooth motion, the fist moving under his shoulder. "And you
control your arms movement with your upper arm."
"You make it look so easy Connor." The boy
growled sliding his left foot towards the archer.
"That’s because it is." He nodded to the
boy, his lithe left arm moving towards his chest. His hand was
opened, the palm was scarlet, and puffy having taken a few dozen
powerful punches in the last hour. "Try again."
The half-black and Chinese boy nodded to the tall
archer, his slender eyes narrowing on the offered palm. He took
in deep breath of air. Not since he quit going to his
grandfather's dojo had Daniel Chung felt every muscle in his large form
burn with exercise. Not since his grandfather was admitted to the
hospital for six broke ribs had anyone taken the time to give him the
kindness that Connor now presented him with. "Last time
dammit. Then I'm going home."
"Watch your tongue," Connor said in a grim tone that
would never suit him.
"Whatever." Daniel grimaced sliding his left
foot towards the Connor. He ground his teeth and pushed his body
forward again. His elephantine arm snapped at his shoulder diving
towards the waiting palm. He bent his elbow as the fist struck
the reddened hand of the archer. A loud slap was heard as it
struck.
Daniel opened his eyes to the sound of a light
laughter. Connor's mouth was spread wide his face alive with the
sort of joy usually emblazoned on the statues of Buddha. "What's
so funny?" he asked perplexed at the man's sudden humor.
"Good job, Daniel," Connor said his reddened palm
slapping into his right fist. He clasped his hand over his fist
and bowed to the kid. "You have passed your ordeal, but remember
what I taught you, should you have to act out your anger again."
Daniel turned his head from the blond haired adult
with a shrug. "What ever man, zài
jiàn*"
[*Chinese for good-bye]
Connor watched the large youth turn his back to him
and walk from the alley. "yǒu
kōng ér cháng lái a*" Connor said to him.
"St. Martin's, I volunteer there."
[*translated it means
'see us again when you are free']
"Whatever," Daniel said, exiting the alleyway.
Connor took his time, walking from the
alleyway. His eyes went wide, when he turned the corner back
towards the entrance of St. Martin's. Two women looked at him,
both with rather serious looks on their faces.
"Misty is ready to flip out." The brunette
spoke. Her hair was long and thick, tucked behind her ears.
The length of her hair surrounded her narrow neck and spilt over her
tight fitting pink tee-shirt. "She's been yelling for about
thirty minutes."
"Oh my..." Connor said, his face suddenly
broadcasting his forgetfulness. "I got so caught up, I forgot
about the time."
The blond let out a shrill laugh, her ivory teeth
exposed beyond her pink painted lips. "Don't worry; we'll explain
that you were in a back alley with a fourteen year old boy."
Connor lowered his head, his nimble chin resting on
the salmon polo shirt. "I'm really sorry, it won't happen again."
"You’re so cute when you get those puppy
eyes." The brunette chuckled to herself.
"We’re just kidding Connor, it was really
sweet seeing you bonding with Daniel. Lord knows he could use a
friend."
"So you know him?" the archer asked raising his head
to the girls.
"He's always being chased by other kids, it’s
really unfair."
"C-C-CONNOR!" A loud voice called from behind
them. Connor turned his head in a blur, his bright eyes surveying
the fading daylight. "CONNOR!" the voice said again, a rushing
form, nearing the group of volunteers.
"Rex?" the blond said her head turning to greet the
elderly man who stopped inches from Connor.
"Yeah…
huff...one...huff...moment...huff." Rex spoke; he was bent at his
waist taking in deep swallows of air, his rough beard sticking to his
neck from perspiration.
Connor watched with a concerned gaze, staring as the
old man righted himself once again. His weathered skin was
flushed to the color of cranberries. However it was his glazing
blue eyes that gave the young man pause. The look of panic was in
his eyes, a look that the archer knew all to well. "Did something
happen?" he asked.
"Look Cindy, I... I need Connor's help, it’s
just awful." Rex spoke, his worried eyes turning from the blond
haired volunteer back to Connor. His worn hand reached up and
pulled the cap from his skull, exposing his thick mane of overgrown
gray hair. He pressed his hat to the chest of his dirty military
jacket. "I don't know who else to ask... Jerry, Brian, and
Carol... they are missing!"
Cindy sighed looking at the old man, her thin hand
clasping Rex's shoulder. "And what in the world gave you the idea
to bother Connor about it? I'm sure they are just sleeping in
some other place tonight."
"No... No... Carol's shopping cart is there, and
Brian's shoes... and Jerry's scrapbook. They aren't out."
The old man bent his head; slender drops of tears fell down his
weathered cheeks disappearing in his gray beard.
"Can't you go to the cops?" the brunette piped up,
the same concern washed over her face as the old man. "I'm sure
they could do more than any of us."
"No, the police won't deal with it yet," Connor
chimed in. "My father tended to always remind me that no one
helps the ones who are without money. Not the Justice League, not
the Titans, and definitely not the police." Connor extended his
hand to the old man. "Rex was it; you show me where you last saw
them."
"Wait Connor!" Cindy said as soon as he took the old
man's hand. "What the hell about the rest of your shift?
Misty is going to kill you."
"Tell her I had a family emergency," Connor said
flashing a quirky smile.
Gracias a Dios Beach, Honduras, Central America
Milo Armitage smoothed his graying beard with his
thick fingers. His deep-set eyes stared vacantly towards the
darkening tides of the Central American beach. He could just make
out the alluring silhouette of his wife against the cobalt waves.
The khaki sands darkened as dusk approached. It felt almost
tranquil to him; for that moment he questioned if they could stay there
forever. The cash would last a few years at least.
It was just three days ago that the couple had
arrived in the former Spanish republic, after a brief stay in
Tokyo. Though he knew they needed to keep moving, Moonday seemed
almost at home on the beaches. Her dark Nubian skin soaked up the
sun's warm rays, like a native. It did him well to see the woman
he loved to be so content, and so at home.
Perhaps this is why the sudden clap of automatic
gunfire, froze him in place. The beach lit up in a flurry of
flashing fire. "MILO!" Moonday shrieked, her form running
up the beach in a trail of showering sand.
Her voice shattered Milo's hesitation like
glass. "Get down my love!" he said in a yell from the back of his
throat. The feminine silhouette crashed onto the beach without a
moment’s hesitation. Seeing her protection for the moment,
his large left arm slipped across his hairy back, his fingers gripping
the onyx gun handle extruding from the elastic band of his swim trunks.
Milo felt his lips spread into a wide grin.
The weight of his M1911 felt almost comfortable. "I'm coming
Moonday," Milo said as he stood up, momentarily ceasing the spray of
bullets. All five gunners turned their attentions towards the
former gunrunner.
It was difficult not to notice the shifting of
positions of the five assassins as they turned the mouths of the large
automatic machine guns towards Milo. However, despite his stature
and size he was not an easy target. He waited four seconds. His
ears alert for the sound chambers engaging before he pushed off from
the beach towel.
His body moved with incredible agility only taking
two steps before he dove towards the sand. His bare shoulder bit
hard into ground, his body tumbling forward. Orange strands
glittered over head missing his moving body by several feet.
He came to a stop a split second later, his heels
digging into the sand. His left arm lashed forward, the
forty-five caliber automatic leveling at the first silhouette in his
sights. Pulling the sensitive trigger in two quick motions, a
halo of fiery light lit up the side of his face. The bullets
streamed across the beach front like copper daggers one hitting the
form’s shoulder, the second one crashing through its forehead.
Despite the carnage that had befallen the first, the
other four didn't seem hesitant. They simply changed their aim
sending a new stream of bullets towards Milo's person. The
flashing gunfire once again illuminated the darkened beach.
Milo growled pushing off from the beach. His
stocky form leaped headfirst towards two of the silhouettes clustered
near the coastline. Bullets streamed all around his airborne
body. His left arm stretched out, squeezing the trigger directly
in front of him.
He heard a groan from one of the gunner’s
moments after he crashed to the ground. Looking up he shifted his
shooting arm towards the remaining gunner in front of him, squeezing
the trigger seconds before the man noticed where Milo had landed.
"Rookies." Milo groaned, getting to his
feet. The warmth of blood flooded down his bare right arm.
He turned his head only to catch the glimmer of another stream of
bullets, moving towards him.
The majority of the stream passed on either side of
him. But three hit home. One ripped through the flesh of
his left shoulder, a second caught the side of his cheek, and third
struck his right hand. The pain burned like fire, reducing the
old man's strength almost instantly.
Pushed back to his knees, he clamped his teeth
tightly. It had been a while since he'd felt pain like
this. Not since Green Arrow knocked him through a second story
window, a few years back. "Milo!" Moonday shouted behind
him. It was the strength he needed.
He turned his head to the left, and brought his left
arm from the ground. His automatic handgun still had about
thirteen shells in its cartridge. He wouldn't even need half that
many. He tried his best to spread a smile as he veered his gun
towards the next silhouette and pulled the trigger.
The bullet hit the figure’s throat in a
violent eruption of blood. Milo didn't witness it though.
Instead he dove to his left, his body rolling sideways as a much
thinner spray of bullets sifted through the sand.
"Did Falcone send you?" Milo asked his pistol
leveled towards the final silhouette and squeezing the trigger.
The bullet bit through the flesh of the gunman's
shoulder, sending a torrent of vermilion down the black fabric of his
suit. "¿Quién es?"
the gunner asked, vocalizing his confusion as to who Milo was referring
to.
"No importa,"
Milo said, in Spanish telling the gunner it didn't matter.
"¿Quién es su jefe?"
"I not say..." the gunner said in labored English in
response to Milo's questioning to whom hired him.
"Entonces morir" Milo said squeezing the trigger
once more. The bullet moved like a thread slamming into the
gunman's head. He dropped the gun instantly taking in deep grasps
of air.
Moonday slowly approached her wounded husband.
Her slender eyes took in, his hunched over form. Blood seemed to
cover every inch of his body. Though she had seen him injured
before, she had never seen him look so violently effected. She
softly laid her warm hand against his back. "We need to get you
to a doctor my love."
"And then we need to get the hell out of here," Milo
said in between labored breaths. San Francisco, CA
"Here it is," Rex said as he stopped at the mouth of
an alleyway. His bearded face turned slowly to view the thin
Milato youth who walked only a few steps behind him. "But I still
don't understand why you wanted to come here. Couldn't you have
just told the police?"
Connor knitted his blond eyebrows, at the elderly
man's question. "I'm sorry Rex, but what do you mean? Did
you not say the police were not going to handle this case?" The
blond youth came to a stop in front of him, laying a slender hand on
his shoulder. "I assumed you wanted me to help."
"It’s a kind gesture kid, but I just figured
you being a rich guy, would be able to get the police to notice
it. I didn't... I mean no offense but we are talking about a
violent crime, and you are well... you don't look like you've ever been
in a real fight before. I'm sure you’re good in a dojo, but
this is the real world."
Connor's eyes widened with a sudden shock. He
assumed that this homeless man came to him, because he was Green
Arrow. He never assumed that people didn't actually know his
identity. But then again there were worse 'costumes' than
his. "I... well..." Connor tried to speak clearing his
thoughts. "How about I have a look, no harm in that right?"
Rex shrugged his shoulders. "I don't see why
not." The homeless man turned his back to Connor, walking into
the alleyway. "Just don't get any ideas about being Batman or
Green Arrow."
Connor couldn't help but feel the wide grin
broadcasting over his face. His footfalls slapped against the
cracked concrete that snaked into the dingy alleyway. The burning smell
of trash and wet immediately burned his nostrils as though it was a
barrier to a world the young hero had just stepped through.
The Narrow passageway looked even more squalid than
the unkempt buildings that lined a good portion of The East Bay.
The dark dilapidated buildings surfaced with chipping paint and cracked
doorways transformed into a dank dungeon. The black asphalt was
degraded into a cracked charcoal, it surface chiseled in thick
grime. A single overhead lamppost gave it only the smallest
amount of illumination, but enough to see that there was indeed a
struggle.
A large metal dumpster sat capsized near the end of
the alley. Unrecognizable clumps of trash littered the surface in
scattered volumes. Connor barely gave these things a gesture, as
he came to a stop. "It hasn't been very long since the initial
struggle," Connor said as he looked to Rex. "We should see what
clues we can find before they clean it up."
"Yeah, if only I drug them to St. Martin's maybe
none of this would have happened. But Brian was drunk again, and
I didn't want to lose my food on account of him." He slunk his
head down.
"You can blame yourself all you want later, Rex,"
Connor said, taking a step forward. He squatted down near a bent
shopping cart that was on its side. The wet bags were spilled
near its wreckage; empty aluminum cans were hoarded around it.
"This is the cart you mentioned."
"Yes... Carol's cart she never went anywhere without
it. It might seem strange to you, but her cans were her passion,
she collected them, as she would say to give herself some purpose."
Connor's fingers surveyed the edges of the cart, his
eyes looking at the black film surrounding the bent metal rungs on its
face. "This cart was hit by something. I'd say a
vehicle. And if they were her treasure, I doubt it'd have been
very old."
He rose up from his squatted position. "I
don't like what I'm feeling here Rex," Connor said, as he made his way
towards the large dumpster that clogged the alleyway. His hands
again felt over the surface of the large dumpster his hand feeling a
large concave dent near its edge. Bringing his fingers to his face he
rubbed his fingers together looking at the black film flake from his
digits. "Black paint," the young martial artist said. "At a
guess I'd say it’s the same black that was on your friends
cart. At first guess it appears to be a hit and run. Now
I'm not exactly a detective... but there is something that strikes me
as strange."
Rex walked slowly towards Connor's side; he held his
stocking cap clinched in his fists. "What do you mean strange?"
"If they were hit with a vehicle going fast enough
to do this much damage to the dumpster, I’d assume we'd have a
bit of blood. Now its pretty dark, but I have been looking-- and
I haven't seen any."
"And that tire tread?” Connor said once again
squatting to the ground, as if to point Rex's attention to the dark
rubber marks scoring the pavement. "I am probably not one to make this
assumption, but they don't look like the sort of tires you'd see on a
regular car."
"Who cares Connor? You've had your look..."
Rex's face shook tears slowly gliding down his cheeks. "You know
it’s a violent crime, let’s go to the police. They'll
listen to you."
Connor turned his head towards the weeping homeless
man. "No they probably won't Rex," Connor said, "But Green Arrow
will."
"GREEN ARROW?" Rex asked stupendously "You
know him?"
"Well sort of," Connor said shrugging his
shoulders. "We practice at the same dojo."
"You think he will help? Rex asked, the
expression of disbelief not leaving his face.
Connor stood up, placing his hand on the old man's
shoulder. "I'm sure of it," the young man said letting a smile glide
over his lips. "Now how about the two of us go grab something to
eat?”
"Nothing hits the spot like your 'rabbit food'."
"I'm going to pretend like I didn't hear that,"
Connor said with a chuckle.
TO
BE CONTINED…
Next
Issue: We finally see what Woodrue has been up to, and Green
Arrow furthers his investigation into this mystery. Be here for
the second part of Herbology.
